


fall from fortune's jagged lips

by Rowantreeisme



Series: Whumptober 2019 [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, Immortality, Mental Health Issues, Not Canon Compliant, Outer Space, Revenge, Survivor Guilt, Tony-centric, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-23 03:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rowantreeisme/pseuds/Rowantreeisme
Summary: Whumptober day 19: AsphyxiationIt seems like he can never do anything but watch, watch things end, watch things die. It seems like all of his efforts to save people always end the same, with him, watching and waiting to be alone once more.





	fall from fortune's jagged lips

**Author's Note:**

> This is remortal au. yeah, it's day 19. i don't have any of the other days finished so this is getting posted now. please dear god mind the tags, but it's really not.... that bad?
> 
> title from Lantern by the Ballroom Thieves

The metal of the bulkhead is cool against his back. Too cool, the heat from the inside of the ship being leached off into space. It’s insulated, sure, but without power it won’t be enough.   


The cold’s not gonna be what kills these people, these people who know that they are going to die, who know that eventually a breath drawn will be their last, and are feasting. 

Celebrating, in a morbid way, taking what joy they can in the last hours of their lives. Tony’s not with them. Of course, he’s not with them, even if he wanted to —  _ deserved _ to, because he will not die here, these people will die because of him and he will  _ not  _ — he’s got his reactor plugged into the wall, enough power to keep the room bright and the gravity functioning, and not much else. 

So… he’s  _ here _ , he can see food spread out on blankets, make-shift tables out of cargo boxes, these people singing and telling stories and trying desperately not to let fear take hold. He’s here, but he’s not part of this. He’s outside, separate, excluded by choice. 

(It seems like he can never do anything but watch, watch things end, watch things die. It seems like all of his efforts to save people always end the same, with him, watching and waiting to be alone once more.)

So… It’s a surprise, when a man slips out of the crowd, and slides down against the window, beside Tony, close enough that Tony can feel his body-heat. “I think,” He says, without preamble — he knows who he is, at least, he knows who Tony is today, the captain of this ship, the man who couldn’t save  _ anyone _ — “That if I had known the fate of this ship, I would have stayed home.”

The man’s voice isn’t sad, not really, almost— amused. A wry observation, something that isn’t  _ meant _ to hurt but does, anyways. 

He’s old, this man, hair shot through with white and all the years he’s lived written on his face. 

“I’m sorry.” Tony says, voice soft. They’re empty words, not because he doesn’t mean them — god, he means them, he means them more than just about anything else he’s ever said, he knows how to repeat the sentiment in just about every single language in the galaxy, every single language he’s capable of speaking — but because it’s useless. It doesn’t matter that he’s sorry, it doesn’t matter that he tried his best to save this ship and the people on it, it doesn’t matter because they’re going to die anyways and nothing he can possibly do will stop that. 

He sees the man shrug in his periphery. “This is not a bad place to die,” He says, “I am with my people, and If I had known— yes, I would have chosen to die in my home. But this— this is not bad, not at all.”

“No one should have to die.” Tony says, “Not because I failed. Not because—”

The man turns to look at him, and Tony— doesn’t. He keeps looking straight ahead. He doesn’t want to see what’s in this man’s eyes. “You did all you could. I know that. These people know that. No one is going to go to their grave cursing you.”

“They should.” Tony says, “They really,  _ really _ should.” 

“They won’t.” The man says, and despite the fact that Tony knows that if these people hate him it would be justified, his voice is still full of conviction. He’s quiet for a moment, and then, “You’re not going to die here, are you.”

Tony’s quiet, for a moment. He could lie, here, say that  _ yes he will _ , and in a couple of days when the air runs out no one will know otherwise. No one will be alive to see that he lied. Stars, he doesn’t want to lie. “You know who I am.” he says, quietly. This is the part he hates. The part where someone recognizes him, connects his face to the stories that have grown larger than him, the fact where they  _ finally _ meet the monster under the bed and realize that he’s  _ nothing _ . 

“I met you once before, you know.” The man says, after a moment, and Tony blinks, looks over at him. “You wouldn’t remember. I was just a kid, but I remember— you were down with the terraforming crew, and when my ship landed it was in the middle of the first big rainstorm that planet had seen, and the sound when we landed was like nothing I had ever heard.”

“I remember.” Tony said. It had rained so hard, the air so thick with water that it was nearly impossible to breath, those first few days, and the  _ mud—  _

The passenger ships had come too early, before the terraforming was technically fit for people, before anything more than basic shelters were even set up. The terraforming crew were still eating the packs of goo sent along with them because the land wasn’t fit for planting, yet. No nutrients in the soil, no water in the dirt before the storms started. 

The ships had had no choice but to land, though. They’d come with enough fuel to get them to their destination, to accelerate and decelerate and with enough extra to course-correct for any surprises but not enough to enter a stable orbit, enough oxygen and food and greenhouse supplies to last them the long, slow journey.

So they’d landed, deep in the mud and pools of water, more than half the length of the ship obscured by the heavy, driving rain. 

The air was good. Tony had been grateful for that, when the ship had settled. Oh, sure, it smelled like sulphur and ozone and and burned your throat on every inhale but it was oxygenated and safe to breath. A couple sols before the ship landed, that hadn’t been the case. 

“I’d been born on that ship, the Airishcope. I’d never seen a sun, or ground, anything but stars, and when we landed, when the doors opened— you were there, hip-deep in the mud,  _ covered _ with it, and you welcomed each and every one of us to this new world, it was dark and wet and cold and  _ horrible _ but you were  _ there _ , and I— god, the  _ smell _ .” His nose wrinkled in remembrance, and Tony, despite himself, snorted. 

“It was bad.” He agreed, “I’d gotten used to it, by that point, but— all of your faces, when it hit you for the first time—”

The man smiled. “It was new. It wasn’t recycled oxygen. It didn’t bother me for long.” His smile faded, and he looked back at Tony. “I didn’t know who you were, then. Just— another member of the terraforming crew. And then— I saw you, today, and you look the same. You look exactly the same, and— I knew.” 

“I can’t save you.” Tony said, throat thick, because he knows,  _ god _ , he’s heard the stories, can barely recognize the person in them, and he knows. Either he’s a monster or a saviour, and no matter what myths someone’s been brought up on meeting him  _ always _ disappoints. “I can’t save anyone. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” 

“I am, too.” The man says. “You are not what I expected.” 

Tony laughs, a bark of something that’s not even remotely humorous. “I never am.”

“Not a bad thing.” The man says, a smile in his voice, “Not at all a bad thing.”

Tony doesn’t know how to respond to that. 

\---

It takes three days before people start dying. The rations, meant to last weeks, are eaten through in an indulgence that no one is going to protest against. 

The first, the first person who lies down and does not get up as the air grows thinner and thinner, is the man who had talked to Tony first. 

Tony— Tony hadn’t even learned his name. He hadn’t asked. He should’ve  _ asked. _ His family — a boy who has the same eyes, a woman with bright silver hair — kneel around his body and cover him with a blanket, place chlorate candles around his body. They sing a death song, everyone who knows the words sending their voices resonating through the metal of the ship, even as the lack of oxygen makes the song come quiet. 

(Tony knows the words. He sings, quietly, and no one else hears him do it.)

Everyone is quiet, after. Whispering to one another, muffling cries. Everyone is afraid, now. Someone has died. It’s  _ real _ now. 

People start dying quicker after that. The death songs are quieter as voices are lost, as the air grows thinner and thinner. Chlorate candles run out of fuel and burn out, and the ship grows darker and quieter with each hour. 

No one can speak. Every single breath is very,  _ very _ hard to draw. 

Tony covers the dead with blankets and wonders who is going to be next. He sings, for each and every one of them, even as it hurts, even as his vision greys out from lack of air. 

The lights go off. There’s no one left to see them, to miss the bright. The batteries finally run out of power, the artificial gravity shutting down with a soft hum. The chlorate candles sputter out one by one, and Tony doesn’t try to relight them. They can’t produce oxygen fast enough, anyways. 

For the first time, the ship is absolutely silent. Corpses covered in blankets float slightly in the lack of gravity like ghosts. Tony’s wedged himself partway between a support strut and the wall, so for now, he doesn’t drift, and closes his eyes. 

“Make sure they get where they need to go.” He says, voice soft but carrying easily through the empty space he knows he’d find himself in if he opened his eyes. “Please, just— help them.”

The light changes, behind his eyelids, and his lungs  _ burn _ as there’s the brush of cool fingers on his temple. “That is not one of my duties, Anthony,” Death tells him, her voice, as always, achingly familiar and more than just sound. Tony drops his head, waits to die, and feels Death sigh. “I will do what I can. You have my word.” 

“Thank you.” He says, making the shapes with his mouth as no sound comes out, and then once again, he’s gone. 

\---

It takes a very, very long time for the ship to fall into a planet’s orbit, to start the decaying curve into the surface, and in that time, Tony plans. He doesn’t have JARVIS, not here in this wreck of a ship that has no power and no air and nothing aside from corpses, and Death is nowhere near omnipotent considering that she can only exist where death exists, but. 

The general, the one who killed these people, leaves a trail of death after him wherever he goes, and  _ that _ , in this case, is very,  _ very  _ useful. He finds out where the general is going, where his next targets are, from whispers Death relays to him. He finds out that his ship, a massive, clunky thing that was never designed for going through atmo, has no crew besides the loyalists who are just as guilty in this as their leader and androids who have been stripped so bare that they’re nothing approaching savable. 

He plans, and he dies, over and over and over, freezing and suffocating and trying fruitlessly to stay in that empty place where he doesn’t hurt, and lets the rage build. 

And when they hit atmo, a barely-settled planet, Tony jumps. He does not want to be discovered in this ship. He does not want to be known, not now. 

Burning up in reentry hurts. It hurts a  _ lot _ , but it’s a quick enough death and the fall is fast enough that when he wakes back up he’s already laying in the dirt, tall wild grass waving above his face. 

He gets up, dusts himself off, and starts walking. 

\---

Tony’s always loved the shapes space makes when he’s on a ship going through arc. Lights and colours that aren’t  _ really _ in the visible spectrum but that are still bright enough to see, light and noise and so  _ much _ that it’s the opposite of nothing. That it feels like, if  _ this _ exists, then there can’t really ever  _ be _ nothing. 

“T minus ten seconds to the end of sublight arc,” JARVIS says, in  _ English _ , the same accent that Tony had cried for, the first time he’d heard it, and he loves this, too. Talking with a friend in a language that did not exist anymore, using a measure of time that no one else uses. Tony stretches, cracks his neck, can’t help the bitter, sharp smile. “Good luck, Sir.” JARVIS says, disconnecting from the ship before they drop out of the arc. 

The ship drops from arc and Tony only gets a second of new sensory information, star-speckled space and a huge dark ship before the little hopper ship he’d rigged up with mining explosives slams into the other ship with all the momentum carried through from the sublight-drop. 

The red of alarms blaring is the first thing Tony sees when he’s conscious again, and the first thing he  _ feels _ is searing heat, all along his back where he’s on the floor, burning even through the nanobot undersuit that can repair itself nearly as well as he can. He gets up quickly, ignoring the pain, because he has a plan, and it does not matter if he hurts. 

_ Fuck _ , but the metal under his feet is hot, and he’s in  _ vacuum _ . It’s going to get much, much worse inside the ship.

That’s  _ good _ though. That’s what he wants, a virus worming its way through this horrible ship’s systems, removing its ability to selectively vent sections of the ship to deal with the flames. No, this fucking ship is going to burn, and everyone in it is going to burn, and that’s the way it has to be. 

The virus is also shutting down the ship’s oxygen production, scrambling it’s outgoing transmission, and locking down any and all escape pods, but that’s the small stuff. There’s a door in front of him,  _ yes _ , that’s convenient, and he ignores the mangled remains of his ship behind him. He’s close to the belly of the ship, he thinks, considering just how far inside the thing his ship had pushed.

That’s good. The bridge, after all, is  _ also _ in the center, theoretically the most protected place in the ship, and still, it won’t be protected enough. 

Tony’s made  _ damn _ sure of that. 

The door opens and closes behind him, and the air that floods into the room is hot enough that Tony’s pretty sure he’s going to die again before he even gets past the flames, hot enough that he can already feel his skin start to crisp. That’s fine. That’s  _ fine _ . He’s come too far to care about something like that. He’s come to far to  _ not _ see this through. 

He steps forwards, and  _ burns _ . 

\---

Further into the ship, Tony finds a corpse. 

It used to be one of the bots running the place, he thinks, but all it is now is slag. Scrap-metal that’s not going to survive the fire. 

It does have a gun, though, and Tony hates the captain of this ship, hates him so _ , so  _ much, and for a moment, he hates that man more than he hates himself. He knows that these bots were dead before he even got here, so stripped down to nothing but obedience that even JARVIS couldn’t bring them back. He knows this, but the rage he feels at knowing that the general he is hunting down sent this bot here to die, is something that scares him, a little. 

_ He will not kill anyone else _ , Tony tells himself, has to break off a part of the bot’s hand where it’s melted around the handle of the gun,  _ I will not let him _ . 

He hums the death-song that he sang for everyone who died in the ship those months ago, and wonders if Death will come for the things that were never even really alive, and he keeps moving forwards. 

_ Fuck _ , but being the reason for a short-lived explsoive decompression leaves some damage. Damage that, unfortunately, was not fatal and therefore not fixed when he burned the first, second, third time around. 

The rest of the robots — workers, fighters, the difference clear from the amount of arms and armor — are all shut down. They can’t think, not with what the general has done to him, but Tony — and JARVIS — couldn’t help but leave them one more kindness. Some of them are half-melted, like the first one, the one the shutdown hadn’t gotten to, but most of them are just laying where they fell. 

The first thing he actually kills is one of the loyalists, and Tony doesn’t see that one until it’s too late and he’s already got a hole burned through his side. Unfortunately for the soldier, Tony isn’t  _ like _ their other prey. He doesn’t go down with just one shot, and if he does—

Let’s just say the goddamn  _ murderer _ is dead before he can even process who could’ve killed him. One shot, high, narrow burst, through the back of the skull, a clean death. It makes Tony feel like shit, to do that, to shoot someone in the back, but. 

He knows that whoever this man was, he was more than complicit in genoside. He knows that no one on this ship is innocent, that everyone here deserves what they will get. 

(He counts himself among that number. He’s so much less than innocent. He’s got more death and blood on his hands than everyone on this ship combined, and he’s paying for it. He pays for it every time he wakes back up.)

Taking the dead man’s uniform would be easier. Quicker. 

He doesn’t  _ want _ this quick. He doesn’t want to take the easy way out. 

People are going to die here today, and they are bad people, they are  _ monsters _ , and anyone who dies today should die by Tony’s hand. 

If he’s going to do this, he is going to see these people die. He is going to look into their eyes and kill them and he will watch each and every one of them cease to exist. That’s what  _ he _ deserves. 

\---

Tony gets into three more firefights before he reaches the bridge. He thinks he might hate the laser guns, now, because they always end up cauterizing any wounds. If he could bleed out, he’d heal, but unfortunately all he has now is burns of varying depth and width throughout his body. Someone gets in a lucky headshot, and  _ that’s _ not great, lost time but nothing else healed, pain no longer the only thing that’s slowing him down. 

So. 

Knowing that he’s not going to win in a straight fight, at a stalemate just before the door to the reinforced room of the bridge, the one he  _ knows _ the general will be in, he backs off down the hall, opens one of the fire control panels, and gets the ship to vent the flames into the corridor he, and the loyalists, were squaring off in. 

He hears the shocked and fearful screams an instant before he can’t hear anything else. He wakes up, and he’s still burning, the flames raging at new oxygen, new  _ fuel _ , but he manages to push himself towards the fire control panel, holds on with as much strength as he still has and vents the fire out to space. 

The door to the bridge slides open, and the general twists his head to snap orders to whoever he thinks is coming through before he sees Tony and his face goes  _ white _ , and Tony  _ smiles _ .

It is not a kind smile, and with the way he’s sure he looks — covered in soot and blood and with pieces of his own charred skin still hanging off of him — he’s sure that he’s something out a nightmare, out of a horror story.  _ Good _ , he thinks, viciously, as the general, this man who hurts people for  _ fun _ , because he can’t see anyone else’s life as anything but points in a game, takes a full step backwards in naked terror. Tony can’t ever believe that he was afraid of this pathetic peice of shit. 

Most of the time, Tony doesn’t like being made into something more than he is. He doesn’t like being thought of as a hero, as a legend, as a demon. 

Right now, though, he’ll  _ gladly _ be this man’s monster. 

“This— you’re— I killed you!” The general says, draws his gun, face contorting as he aims and fires. Tony doesn’t bother to dodge, even though the shot is telegraphed, even though he could’ve. He lets it hit him in the arm, burn a chunk out of his bicep. It hurts, and now, that’s only keeping him moving forewards. 

“Did you?” Tony says, spits, keeps his teeth bared, “Did you  _ really? _ ” He says, takes measured steps forewards, “You don’t fucking know who I am, what I am, because if you knew, you’d know that  _ you can’t kill me. _ ”

The general fires another shot, and this one hits Tony low on his other side. If he’d seen it coming, he would’ve dodged — it’s too close to something that could actually kill him in one shot, and he  _ can’t _ afford to waste that time. Not now. Not so close, — but he doesn’t stop walking, just  _ snarls _ , takes another step. 

The general’s back hits the pannel of buttons and switches that control the ship, all dead, now, and Tony advances. Time for  _ him _ to feel cornered. Time for  _ him _ to feel afraid. 

Tony draws his gun, and points it at the general's head. “My name is Tony Stark,” He says, “I was the captain of the ship you destroyed. I’m the one that bore witness to your crimes. And this?” He says, and he’s not smiling anymore, he’s not baring his teeth, all of the anger is… gone, now. However horrible, this is still just a person, and he’s still afraid, and Tony’s still going to kill him. Stars, Tony wishes he didn’t have to kill him. 

Tony’s looking straight into his eyes, now, gun against his forehead. He’s going to watch the life leave them. 

“This is your justice.” He says, and fires. 

\---

After, Tony floats by the soot-stained main window, looking out into the stars. 

After the fire had finally burnt itself out, after all the air had hissed out into the void, after he’d let himself feel, again, feel the pain, and the injuries, and the rancid feeling of having more blood on his hands. 

Just… After. 

He floats. Looks out the window. He doesn’t cry, because the ship’s full vacuum right now and any tears that could possibly fall boil before they can leave his eyes. He’s  _ tired _ . He wishes he could sleep, but stuck between death and dying, he can’t sleep. 

JARVIS’s gonna come pick him up at some point, but before that, he has to find a ship, and find where Tony currently is. Yeah, the momentum equations should be simple enough, but there’s enough variable — the venting flames contributing to a change in angle, for one example — that Tony knows that it could take quite a while before JARVIS finds him. 

“You did well, Anthony.” Death says, floating in front of him, head turned to look out the window as well, “You did well.” 

Tony doesn’t say anything to that. Physically, he can’t — he’s fading again, already — but if Death wants to praise him, he’s— he can’t say anything to stop her. She knows what he did here. She knows everything he’s ever done. He knows that she’s just trying to offer comfort, in this crude, awkward way, but— 

He wishes that he didn’t have to kill anyone. He wishes that he could’ve done this without any death. He wishes that no one had to die, here or on the ship full of scared civilians running from where they thought they’d die. 

He wishes he could  _ sleep _ . 

Death sighs. Tony feels it, more than hears it. His eyes are closed already, and before he fades away for the last time, he feels a cold hand against the side of his face, a gesture so absolutely  _ soft _ , and kind, that he doesn’t know how to respond. He remembers when actual people would touch him like this, like he meant something to them. “You did well,” Death repeats, “Be calm, Anthony. You are done here.” 

Tony dies, one more time, and wishes that were true. 


End file.
